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The air conditioning suddenly isn’t working. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my temple.
That’s when I see the word.Subscribers.
Shit on a stick. I have to subscribe to see this live show. I can’t do that. That would be totally insane. Unhinged.
I cannot sign up to watch my neighbor fuck himself with toys.
Oh god, what kinds of toys? I want to know what kinds of toys.
I click out of the browser quickly and turn off the screen. I can’t do that. It would be too weird.
But I don’t move away from my computer. I can’t force my legs to lift me up and propel me to safety—to a place where I’m not crossing so many lines, where I haven’t totally lost it.
I place my hands on my thighs, and once again, try to get my brain to tell my legs to move, but my stupid mind is stuck on Damon and his live show.
I mean…I could maybe sign up with a fake name, right?
No. That’s insane. They would need my credit card. They could easily identify me.
My heart is racing and my palms are sweating so much I can feel the moisture through my jeans. I’m a fucking waterfall right now. I might as well become a national park at this point. People could come and watch me sweat buckets.
I huff and turn the computer on again, going straight to the site that’s becoming an obsession. Scrolling down to the bottom where it’s trying to get people to sign up, I see the note that says this site is always discreet.
Does that mean my name won’t show up? Or maybe Damon won’t see it? I decide to click through, you know…just to see. Really, it’s just research…just to know what the process is like. I’m interested in his job, in what he does to make a living.
I see that I need to enter a username and password, and thank fuck it doesn’t require my real name on this page. As I scroll down, I see a note saying the username is all that will be displayed for comments and during live shows. So, Damon won’t know it’s me as long as I don’t use my real name.
Now, the question of the year is, what should I name myself?
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t know.
I spend far too much time thinking on it, and before long, I’m starting to get frantic. The live show is about to start. And I honestly don’t want to miss it.
What the fuck do I name myself?
My hands clack out a name before I can stop myself.
FeelingGayToday
Yep. That’s all I can do. I’m in a panic. My hands are shaking as I enter my credit card info and then click into the live show. Damon appears on the screen, and I fall to my knees, hiding beneath the desk for a second. Oh my god, what the fuck am I doing? What the hell is wrong with me?
I peek over the corner of the desk and see my neighbor sitting on the edge of his bed, a smirk on his face. He’s wearing a see-through shirt and short shorts. I blink and wet my lips, pressing my shaky hands to the edge of the desk and pulling myself up a little higher.
He can’t see me, but hell, I still feel guilty. Like a voyeur.
And yet, I still don’t look away. I can’t.
Now just the top of my head is poking over the edge of the desk, my hands clasped on the faux wood as Damon engages with the audience. But I don’t even hear it, I just watch as he holds up some toys, smirking at the camera.
What the fuck are those things? How the hell does he fit that in his ass?
Oh my god.
Why am I thinking of his ass?
I gulp and run a hand down my face, starting to sweat even more. If I keep this up, I’m going to need to wear athletic clothes to mop up the moisture on my body.
